


Lipgloss and Lollipops.

by orphan_account



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Crossdressing, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Forced Crossdressing, M/M, Other, non-con not detailed but it's still there !
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 00:02:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16586843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: A small ficlet/drabble written from the POV of Dennis Reynolds narrating one of his erotic memoirs. I don't condone Dennis' behavior towards Cricket in this fic in any way, but the reality of the situation is that Dennis isn't the type of guy to take 'no' for an answer. Tried to keep the actual 'sex' part of the fic as short as plausible. Anyways, this is garbage, so I don't even ask that you enjoy it, lmao.





	Lipgloss and Lollipops.

I’m writing this entry several days senior from the sex. Quite uncommon for me, really, as I’ve ritualized keeping record of my ever-expanding list of conquests, all which have been carefully documented, color-coded, and time-stamped. However...something new was born that night, all which had left me breathless and in need of certain reciprocation.

Now, Dearest Reader, you must be asking yourself, how apt and supple were this woman’s breasts? Did she put her pinkie up his asshole? Well, I give you this: neither. You see, my prized concubine from the night prior was...no concubine at all, really. Nor was he a stunning diva with skin the color of malt caramel and pink-ribbons amassed in her cheeks. 

No, no, no. 

It was Rickety -fuckin- Cricket. 

That’s right. A pasty Stuart-little lookin’ dipshit. An ex-gothster-turned-devout. Get this, he’s a fucking priest now. Go figure, right? I mean, this is the same guy who was the equivalent of Satan’s missionary when he was just sixteen!He’s absolutely obsessed with me, the freakazoid. But what can I say, I guess he’s spent his entire life being drawn to divinity, knowing he’ll never get to sit at Heaven’s equivalent of ‘The Cool Kids’ table. 

Once a dumb Robert Smith wannabe, always a dumb Robert Smith wannabe. And no amount of praying is ever gonna change that.

Where to start? You know, I get how important setting is; you really want your audience to get a feel for their surroundings. And, I mean, I could devote a good thirty minutes to describing the subtle nuances of Paddy’s illicit filthiness. So bad, it’d make even John Waters jealous. Another forty-five on the awesomeness of my bedroom and the Dave and Buster’s point card I gifted Mac, who would later be joined by Charlie, to keep him outta my hair for the night. Little did he know, I hadn’t been to Dave and Buster’s in over a year. There wasn’t a damn cent left to that card but this would later be confirmed by a string of angry voicemails, courtesy of Mac. 

Anyways, one can say I worked relentlessly to make sure things would go smoothly. So, this really isn’t about the has-beens or the what-ifs. It’s about me,getting my dick wet, by the unlikeliest of lips.

I’ve always had a penchant for playing dress-up. At the tender age of eight years and two months, I had discovered what -at the time- was my Sister’s first makeup kit. It was atrocious,a tacky multi-compartmentalized plastic trap the color of Pepto-Bismol; it won me over, instantly. From that day moving forward, I would enter this world as a changed man.

Eventually, the Barbie eye-shadow pallets would be traded in for Sephora’s finest. I stopped wearing Dee’s princess dresses; they were never fitting for the kind of man I wanted to be-or could you say women?  
I bought lingerie by the stockfull: the tighter, the pinkier, the skimpier, the better. I exchanged modesty for charisma, baring my sculpted ass in teeny-tiny mini-skirts paired with satiny stockings. 

I was and am GOD.

But, you see, sometimes pampering myself just isn’t enough. As divine creatures almost always do, I wanted to create something, forge it from powdered blush and lace, and call it my own. 

Rickey Cricket and I, it seems, crossed paths at the most desperate of times: he was looking to be saved, and I,was seething for something fresh to sink my teeth into.

I wouldn’t call Cricks a handsome man. Not even an attractive one. He lacks the essence of either masculinity and femininity, making him a bit of an unfortunate hybrid: something in between, but not entirely just. No amount of rouge could save him, but I still found my cock tingling as I rounded his plaint ‘o’ shaped lips in coat of crimson. 

No, he wasn’t my type. It was how easily he had relinquished his control, let me use his face like a canvas, his body like a mannequin. And there was something...undeniably hot, about that.

I wrapped his body in the cheapest of intimates which I own, a pearly bralet with frilly straps, intersecting between the shoulder-blades to form an ‘x’, and a simple pair of matching panties. I didn’t offer him any heels; those were a privilege, not a right. 

I, on the other hand, was dressed far more elaborately, a subconscious queue in demonstrating the intrinsic status difference between us. My waist corseted in tight-leather, soon enough my lacy thong was caught between my ankles and the four-inch heel of my rhinestone stilettos, the slippery head of my erection tenting the fabric of my skirt. 

What happened afterwards...isn’t abundantly clear. I recall subtle resistance on Cricket’s behalf, but his eyes said otherwise. Oh, he wanted me, alright. 

I fucked his throat raw and he kept making these egregious noises, like that of a bird with a worm caught in its throat. An ammature, I could certainly do better than this. I know, because I’ve been practicing using a twelve-inch vinyl dildo when Mac isn’t home. 

Cricket, from what he expressed, wasn’t a swallower. But, that was easily changed when I clamped my hand over his lips, lipstick smearing and lining the creases in my palms, and urged him to drink.

It was a marvel, watching his Adam’s apple bob up-and-down as he choked on my bitter-ejaculate. My, he was ever-so good for me. 

I sent him home afterwards, our little secret kept under lock-and-key between his teeth.

I’m not afraid that he’ll say anything; he wouldn’t dare.


End file.
